Supporting Hashira (柱)
by Emocean
Summary: "When all hell breaks loose, you've kind of gotta break loose too," she mused. — By their looks, they thought her an idiot, probably. They might've been right. But she was right too. She knew by experience. Semi-SI/OC.
1. 01 — Genesis: Uchiha Hashira

**Genesis: Uchiha Hashira**

* * *

 _What the Hell?_ _—_ Not the most charming first thought to have, nor the most graceful. But charming and gracious never quite did it for her, and they probably never would. Not in this chaos, they couldn't.

But that's for later.

Laughter echoed around her when she was born, blurry faces clouding her vision.

Her chest tightened as she looked around wildly. Was this Hell? Could it be?

A firm _smack!_ clapped across her skin, and she broke out into panicked screams, flailing desperately for some sort of support but finding nothing to hold on to. Nevermind the chills racing across her skin, she gasped and wheezed and cried some more because — this? This was Hell.

The cheering voices mocked her tears in a foreign language.

" _On'nanokodesu…_!"

" _Omedetōgoz…_ _kenkō…_ "

"… _namae_...?"

Something like a whisper sounded from above her, ringing in her ears.

 _Hashira_.

She bawled for mercy.

Maybe normally, in another life, she'd have considered it weak to cry. But panic gripped her in its gloves and squeezed, and she sobbed for grace because this was Hell — it _had_ to be. And _everybody_ laments when they go to Hell. So she cried and cried and cried and hopefully these demons would release her.

A warm breath and a soft murmur brushed across her forehead, and then she was handed over.

It was gripping — Terrifying. Confusing. Frustrating. — being passed around like a _baby_. She jerked and whined but no one listened.

" _Ichi, ni, san! Ossu!"_

Then came a shriek of pain from somewhere in the room. As if on cue, the arms carrying her stiffened momentarily.

" _Biru-chan, daijōbu ka?"_

" _Ochitsuite kokyū, Biruda-san."_

Above the worried murmurs and cries it induced, she tried to locate — at the _very least_ — whoever had decided that the best course of action to take was to scream bloody murder almost directly into her ears.

 _What's happening?_ — She didn't know. She felt the people bustling and chattering all around the room and didn't understand why. She couldn't pinpoint anything at all, including herself. Her muffled ears strained to catch the tail end of the short conversation and maybe make sense of what was going on, but the girl found that she couldn't.

Then, as if to deliberately make matters worse, another wail starting ringing through the air.

She tried to catch her breath and focus but this entire ordeal was way too strange; she was bound and couldn't move, completely helpless; she was in _danger_. Her throat tightened again against her will. Her face scrunched up and, back on autopilot, she sobbed. She sobbed and sobbed and sobbed.

Two wails. Two children — and one of them was _her_.

Too much that she didn't understand.

Two lives.

* * *

 _There's life after death._ That was the first revelation she came to. _One way or another, those religious nuts were right…_

Before she was old enough to speak, Hashira was only able to regard the world and those of it with wide, startled eyes.

What was going on, honestly? As much as she tried to ponder on it, she couldn't be too sure. She wasn't able to think very well.

Flashes of a past life echoed in her mind, but they didn't connect well with the newfound information of today — of _this_ life. It was all information that her brain just couldn't seem to contain and it all slipped from her mind like sand.

Life felt like an incomplete puzzle: _Should I be alive? Am I breathing?_

Yes, she was breathing. In and out, and in and out, and crying, and gasping, and then being force-fed milk or something, then repeat. She wasn't dead. _Why_? She didn't know.

Then, onto the next conundrum: _I'm shaking._ _Why am I shaking? That's not normal!_

But the trembling was there to stay, it seemed. Another side of her felt the quivering of energy blooming in her veins and thought nothing of it, even when it shook her to the core. Somewhere in her instinctively found it normal and she didn't know why.

Onto the next enigma: " _Hashira, Hashira, Hashira"! My name's not Hashira! It's… It's something else._

But she couldn't remember what.

So when her mother called her by that name again, she glanced up responsively.

"Yacchan, Hashira-chan? Are you two hungry?"

Hashira's face twitched and scrunched itself up. She was still befuddled in a world of mystery, but she'd been conditioned to recognize the sound of her (new?) name as the promise of food, and she was hungry.

 _You're Pavlov's dog_ , an echo in her mind joked.

She briefly felt amusement, and then it flickered into confusion. What in the world was Pavlov's dog? Where did that come from? She didn't know. She couldn't remember what she'd been thinking of by the time she started suckling.

* * *

Time passed slowly.

Hashira took long naps during the day. It was easiest for her that way, even if it worried those around her. She had her other things to worry about, like having no control of her bowels, or being breastfed every other hour, or not being able to pick up her own head. Or strange reoccurring dreams.

There was always a teenager in her dreams, one with dark skin and tight braids. Her eyes were deep brown, and she wore—strangely over-pocketed pants? No, they were _cargoes_ , one leg completely burnt off, and the other one scorched at the knee, where it cut off. Her white tank top was bloody, but her skin was clean. Not a single scratch or bruise, and she was calm.

Cradled in her arms was a crying baby, one with pale skin and dark hair. Every night, this baby cried. It cried and cried and cried.

The teen would mumble, "Sorry, sorry. I didn't mean it," and she would rock the baby slowly, tensely, as if preserving something sacred. She probably was.

Eventually, the baby would squirm down to rest and finally settle into her arms.

When it finally did, Hashira would wake up.

She'd would stare at the ceiling for hours until her parents came to feed her.

She remembered the dreams, but she couldn't remember which one she was.

* * *

Days slowly blurred into weeks, into months, into year after year quickly forgotten in the recesses of her mind.

But as soon as she grew enough to overcome her goldfish memory, Hashira knew to be bored as hell.

Every time she opened her eyes, she was met with the sight of yukatas, kimonos, and wooden walls. Wooden floors. Wooden ceilings. Shoji doors. It was a daily yawn. If she had to describe what made up her setting, those words would prefix her report, right after the words _Uchiwa Fan_. The blasted thing was plastered _everywhere_.

 _She should know what those fans everywhere mean! She should recognize them from somewhere._ But she didn't. _Something somewhere inside of her has seen them before_ — so she ruminated over it over and over again, but right before she could make a connection, the fans slipped from her mind.

The only time she truly had to herself, if she ignored the snoring child by her side, was at night. She could muse to herself silently for hours on end, and so she did:

 _This couldn't be Feudal Japan, right?_

No, it couldn't. Feudal Japan didn't have high-collared shirts. That much she was sure of. It also probably didn't have working fridges and western bathrooms. Here, wherever _here_ was, there were modern courtyards and sidewalks, alongside decent dirt roads, but after more than _two whole years_ Hashira had still never seen even a single car or bike. Here, in this strange setting, there also were running water and modern western stoves, but no western foods whatsoever.

In short, nothing about this place made sense.

So Hashira was annoyed.

If she'd ever known what it was like to be high, she'd imagine this to be how it felt. An irksome sense of confusion while sluggishly trying to orient herself. And it was hard to. It was _very_ hard to. The quivering in her veins went unexplained, just like everything else. It was frustrating.

Did all babies have that? Did they all feel trembling in their bodies? Were they all so eerily aware of the world around them? Is that what kept them up and wailing at dusk — annoying their fathers, tiring their mothers, and startling their siblings into crying too?

Hashira didn't know and it aggravated her.

She didn't know if she was alone in this feeling, this fear.

Why could she _feel_ people walking from behind the walls? Why did she know what was happening outside?

Logic intoned that an owl's hoot was natural. It wouldn't kill her in the dead of night. But having to feel as the bird swept through the trees in the quietness outside, having to _know_ as its aura collided with a rat's or mouse's — and, in the dead of night, having to lie there, chillingly aware as the creature's life faded… _that's_ what scared her.

She wasn't even three years old and Hashira was afraid for her life. She felt the world dying around her, and she _hated_ it.

* * *

Time passed even more slowly than before, now that she had a hold of her memory.

Her first solid memory was of vague excitement and intense panic. Odd mixture, but yeah. Finding out that you've been born into a world of magical ninjas did that to you.

She felt something like a _force_ , huge and tense, building up like a huge balloon ready to pop. Balloons popping tended to be scary. She didn't really feel up to finding out if this would be too. That was what woke her, like sunlight hitting someone's eyes and rousing them right before their alarm clock rings.

Only, the alarm was her mother. "Yacchan? Hashira-chan?"

Ah, _Hashira-chan_ , the promise of food. Unfortunately, she wasn't too hungry at the moment so she ignored her mother's voice.

It called again, laughing softly. "Come on, wake up."

 _I'm awake already_. And the toe-curling sensation that had woken her was still there, a long ways off yet all too close. But with Mother there, Hashira felt safe to ignore it too. Mother had a very comforting aura about her. Hashira pulled her sheets up over her shoulders, turning.

"Wake up, c'mon, c'mon. Yacchan?"

The sheets beside Hashira shuffled and a head peaked out from under. This was Yanemaru—or, to mother, _Yacchan_. She and her knack for nicknames were the whole reason why Hashira only recently learned his real name. He yawned widely, his flailing arm catching Hashira in the gut.

" _Oomph_!"

"Hi Shi!" He flashed a gummy smile with a line of drool on his cheek, before reaching for their mother's hands and making curious noises.

She pursed her lips and glanced over at his plushy face. It'd been three years already and he _still_ did that every time he woke. "Tsk…"

When all Mother did was gasp and clap her fingers against her cheeks, crying " _I have the most adorable children in all of Fire Country_!" at a volume much higher than entirely necessary, Yanemaru opted to switch focus from the loud cheering and chew on his sister's arm instead.

 _Bothersome…_

Hashira curled in onto herself but didn't bother trying to fight him off. She was used to him by now. It'd already been years of this daily occurrence, some things were just fruitless. (He was also admittedly cute, so there was that. Black eyes, blunt bangs, and a pixie cut.)

Mother squealed even louder. "Kuro-kun! Look!" And the aura around her, her ambiance, her _energy_ or whatever it was flared giddily.

It hit Hashira straight on and rang through her like a gong. She flinched back, head aching and ears ringing.

 _Kuro-kun_ responded to Mother's glee from somewhere Hashira couldn't see him: "You do realize you're hurting Shichū's ears?"

"Hey! Back off, you! Her name's Hashira."

"We agreed—"

"We _agreed_ that we'd each name one, and you ch…"

Hashira tried to tune the rest out. It was another argument in the early morning. Over names this time, it sounded like.

 _They're annoying._

She rolled onto her other side, shut her eyes, and tried to shut out their voices. But even when their energies had calmed, Hashira still felt a faint itch in the background. The force from before—the one that had woken her, that she'd almost forgotten about, was still there.

There was nothing she could do about it though. So maybe it was just anxiety? But what had her so anxious?

Yanemaru must not have felt it. He shifted to throw his leg over her coiled up body, hugging her tightly.

Hashira sighed in resignation.

 _So this is what it's like to have a brother._ She paused to wonder why she even knew what it felt like to _not_ have a brother. Then Mother lifted him up off of her, cutting off Hashira's line of thought, as she returned his hug him briefly when he latched on sleepily, before grinning down at her.

Somehow, all Hashira could think of it how she didn't have a mom. She wasn't _supposed_ to have one. She shouldn't have a mother, she never has.

But she did. She did now.

"Hashira-chan?"

This was her mother. She was pretty, her fingers approaching to tuck messy strands of black hair behind Hashira's ears, like she always did in the mornings. Her eyes were a deep black and her long hair hung down like luscious vines, each strand swirling where it landed on her bare chest. _Wait, bare chest?_

Hashira blinked slowly.

Mother's top was undone. "Don't ignore your mother." She sighed, smiling fondly albeit a bit worriedly. "You too, you know, Hashira-chan. It's time to eat."

Hashira recognized the words "you too" and "eat" and pulled the blankets a bit higher. Was food going to be forced on her again? Was it even _okay_ to breastfeed three-year-olds? When would they get to eat rice and eggs like everyone else in this house? Maybe _then_ she'd be okay with having her beauty sleep disturbed for a force-fed meal.

"Hashira-chan…"

She looked up again to find black distressed eyes staring back at her, lip being bitten in clear concern. Mother had Yanemaru cradled in one arm, suckling, and with the other she was gently stroking Hashira's face.

Something was wrong with her, probably. She looked sad or something.

 _Ah_ … _It's not my business._ Hashira didn't think much of it.

She did recognize the comforting aura every time it touched her, and she recognized that voice as _the voice_ of comfort, but she still didn't know this woman well. She still didn't know her by name—titular _Mother_ was just a substitute—and she still wasn't hungry. She closed her eyes to drift back to sleep.

"Kuro-kun," called Mother's voice.

"Just leave it. If she's not hungry, she's not hungry," he said.

"She's _never_ hungry… No matter how many times I call her, she doesn't respond at all."

"Then she's not hungry," he repeated. The sound of a chair scraping against the floor cued that he was standing. He audibly strode over to his wife. She gently set Yanemaru down beside Hashira, discouraged. "When she's hungry she'll eat, Biru. Leave it."

Hashira frowned when Yanemaru latched onto her hair, which she pointedly disregarded, ears focused on her parents. When their footsteps drifted away, she almost felt relieved. _Almost_.

She didn't have enough time to relax completely.

Abruptly, the gathering force from afar got unbelievably tense. The balloon that she'd ignored felt stretched to the limit.

Hashira's stomach tightened and her stomach sank to her feet. It suddenly felt a little harder to breathe, and her little brother's arms wrapped around her weren't helping. "Y-Yacchan… no," she hissed, disconnecting herself from his clingy hug with a rough jerk. Apparently that was the last straw of her heedlessness before fate and that damn balloon decided to explode in her insides and send her reeling for air. A shiver tore through her spine and her eyes snapped open.

A fucking eruption of what felt like pure energy _clapped_ inside of her, blinding her mind with a flurry of white lights.

" _AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH_ —!"

This was all she could get out before her heart lurched into her throat, effectively choking her down. _I don't want to die again. I don't want to die._ But she couldn't move. Flashes raced through her mind, the sight of fire, the smell of smoke, a roof tumbling down and burning, burning, burning.

Only, this was much worse than the visions. Even before she saw the fire or smelled the smoke, and even though the wooden ceiling was staring right back at her wide eyes, the tightness in her chest threatened to shatter all her ribs in one go, her lungs were going through the fucking wringer, it _hurt_.

An explosion sounded from outside, like a _literal_ explosion—a bomb.

She wanted her parents back.

"M…Mo…" A stark gasp cut through her cry when pain shot up her veins.

"Hashira! Yanemaru!"

 _Godsend._

* * *

"Hashira! Yanemaru!" Biruda burst back into the children's room where Hashira-chan was tensely staring off into space (normal), and Yacchan was sulking from her snub (also normal). Both safe and sound. (For now.) She closed her eyes briefly, thankfully, before striding into the room more briskly. There was no time to waste. "We need to evacuate to the other—"

Kuro-kun zoomed in, snatched up both the children, and frantically jumped out through the window. She just barely followed his cue before the escaping right before the house went up in raging and explosive flames.

She saw Hashira-chan start screamed. No, not _crying_. Quite literally, she was screaming in terror. Yacchan imitated her, whooping for joy.

Biruda caught up her husband in no time, racing through the courtyards and avoiding flying weapons. She bit her lip when black dots clouded her vision. "I can't g…"

And the rest was tuned out.

Hashira was _pissed_. She was flummoxed again — and also twice as annoyed as this usually made her, because this time she was fairly certain that her life was on the line. The details were blurry as always, but she knew just enough to fire her up: (1) Her dad was a miscreant, (2) she was about to die — if not from this _attack_ (?) then from this fucking _headache_ , and (3) her mother didn't seem to care.

She didn't hear what her parents were discussing over the sound of her own terrified cries because _why the hell did this idiot jump out the window with kids in his arms, is he_ crazy _?_ Hashira grabbed at his collar with her tiny hands and shrieked for her life, hoping it'd convey all the words she couldn't form. _HELP! SOMEONE! SOMEONE HELP, I'M IN PAIN — I DON'T WANT TO DIE AGAIN! I DON'T WANT TO DIE!_

Father passed Yanemaru to their mother briefly. Yanemaru was giggling excitedly at the rush of wind, cheering and flapping his arms. They were running at breakneck speeds and Hashira was about to pop a vessel. _Is this_ _even possible?_

Flustered, she shifted her eyes to the sight of a mass of people running behind her. And damn, it was a lot of people.

There were multitudes evacuating, and even more going back to… to fight? They carried swords and ninja stars. Each person had a fluctuating aura as they struggled to speed up. These people with were going to combat fucking ERUPTIONS with swords and knives like it's the goddamn 1630s. Hashira gaped at them. _Wha…?_

Speak of the devil—a second blast detonated in the distance. Caused not by a bomb in sight, just by a flying knife and paper. The dots' struggle to connect in her mind increased tenfold, _somehow, she should remember that kind of thing from somewhere,_ but ultimately failed to due to the raging wave of energy that surged from the flare, momentarily blinding her right after it got done spinning her head in a circle.

Her parents were discussing what must have been fucking gibberish when what they _should_ have been discussing was _letting her the hell down._ Getting her an _aspirin_ or some shit, her head was _killing_ her.

" _H…Hey_!" Hashira called, trying to get their attention. They made extra sure to ignore her, Father going as far as to briskly cover her mouth.

"The Senju?" Mother murmured from the recesses of their conversation.

"And the Sarutobi!" Father said. He then leaped onto a tree in his rush, not even stopping. He literally just _jumped_ up there and landed on a fucking branch with his damn infant in his arms, then kept running. _What the hell?_

"Quickly—"

Hashira didn't catch the rest. She was busy screaming her ass off. More loudly this time, like _please notice her, please let her down_. She'd crawl back home and hit the medicine cabinets _herself_ if need be! Because, this? This was INSANITY.

"LET ME DOWN, LET ME DOWN, LET ME DOWN, LET ME DOWN!" she begged, except it came out as a very muffled " _AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AAAHHHHHHHHH!"_ in between gasps for air that she barely pulled in through this sweaty hand covering her mouth.

Another explosion sounded and people died. Hashira felt as their lives faded. Her breath became shallow and sweat poured down her face. One last time, she looked back at the ones going back to fight. That's when she noticed the symbols on their backs.

 _Those are… Those are the Uchiwa fans._

"Biruda," Father called, turned his head to look at Mother over his shoulder, "hurry! The Senju will catch up at any moment if we lag."

 _Wait, Senju?_ Hashira stopped her flailing for a moment. _What?_

And then Father got busy using his — energy? Aura? Whatever the heck it was — to knock her ass out. She didn't really get how he did it. His aura just _flared_ and then she was fading.

Yanemaru was still whopping. Mother was still rambling about whatever it was they decided merited this attempt at infanticide. Father's hand slipped from her mouth then, right as she was blacking out.

The fundamental particular, the clue she'd been missing all along, _something_ clicked into place, just a little too late, yet just in time.

Just in time.

* * *

 **A/N:** It's been a while, yes? If you haven't read this fanfic before, welcome and thanks for coming! If you have, then welcome back! Thanks to everyone who's encouraged me and sent positive reviews and PMs! You've strengthened me before I was able to learn how to stand and encourage myself as well! I'm eternally grateful, and the story still exists because you gave that kind push. Thanks! SH柱 owes you its _life!_

My planning/writing format has changed a bit (*lot) so I'm confident that I've improved! On that note, plenty about this story from the characterizations to the plot itself has changed! You'd be surprised…!

As promised, here's _Supporting Hashira (柱)_ —better than before! (Hopefully?) Definitely! Cheers!

 **EDIT: 02/22/2020**


	2. 02 — Origins: Black Victory

**Origins: Black Victory**

* * *

" _To understand the reasons you must first look at the origins." ― Anthony T. Hincks_

* * *

Since the very beginning, they were as different as the sun and moon. Her son giggled and cried. He ate and slept. He babbled nonsense and played for her fingers and did all the other cute things that children should do, but Hashira-chan? She did nothing.

Biruda was worried for her child. Her daughter.

Why didn't she laugh? Why didn't she wake in the mornings? Why wouldn't she sleep at night?

She never wanted to eat; she never tried to talk—she never did _anything_ , aside from watching. Just watching and crying.

Kuro-kun was unnerved easily. He was ridiculous, really. He became disheartened when his daughter didn't blow raspberries back at him so he'd picked up their son and played with him instead. And it remained that way for months. _Yanemaru_ would at least grab his finger, even if he didn't blow raspberries.

 _Idiot_.

Biruda was frustrated.

 _Babies don't blow raspberries because they're babies, idiot. What the hell do they know?_

It's just what they didn't _do_ and, anomalies aside, this _was_ her daughter. Their daughter. Their clan and kin, flesh and blood. Uchiha Hashira.

Biruda could admit that she acknowledged her daughter's queer disposition a bit belatedly. In her defense, Hashira-chan napped too often for her to really look for it. The penny dropped one night when Yacchan woke up crying, prompting Biruda to shuffle into the dark room to comfort him. That's when she saw it: Hashira-chan's gaze was as black as the night, wide and empty as they focused on her crying twin.

She didn't look childish, then. She looked desolate. And after her gaze flickered to her mother, she tensed and her eyes snapped closed. Her breathing then softened, and she was asleep. Or, she _looked_ asleep.

But Biruda felt her chakra coiling and stretching in and on itself beyond its natural limits. It vaguely reminded her of a ninja training to conceal their chakra signature but, of course, that was ridiculous. Hashira-chan was just a baby, after all.

Kuro-kun became suspicious when she told him. He became spectacularly anxious. He pestered her frequently with various questions: _Did you take on a genjutsu master during your early weeks of pregnancy, before we knew? Has anyone tried breaking Hashira out of one? Who was there when she delivered?_ — he hadn't been present. She'd told him to be there, and he wasn't, so she didn't care for his regret. He was just scared, anyway. He wanted to call in Tajima to check for a genjutsu over Hashira-chan. He wanted to use his sharingan to look for himself.

She'd told him "no" and retreated to the opposite side of the house, daughter in arms, offended that he'd even ask such a question.

Penitently, Kuro-kun must have found himself unnerved by his daughter's gaze, and so he focused on his son.

Hashira barely noticed, and so she couldn't care less.

* * *

Uchiha Hashira.

Now, not to be dramatic or anything, but _what the heck_ was she supposed to think of that?

She was an Uchiha now.

The events of _that_ day flickered through her mind on replay, recurring screams sounding like a broken record, a scratched disc in her brain, showing her again and again as the life she thought she knew burst into flames and all that was left was ashes. _This can't be real_ , she thought, scrambling for an explanation. But there was no explanation aside from the fact that it was. It just was _._

She was reborn into a fictional universe. Either that or Masashi Kishimoto was secretly an oracle with some serious connections to a different dimension. Somehow. Either way, she was alive and _here_ , where bending was real, and so were talking animals, and so was mind control, as well as running at Cadillac speeds, walking on water, sealing demons into people, and so on and so forth.

All relatively cool stuff if you ignored how everyone only ever used them as accessories to murder.

Which was kind of hard to do.

So, on one hand— _awesome_ , she could probably learn to do that kind of stuff too if she tried. (Thanks to her surname.)

On the other hand—if she ever left this compound, she might get hit by a flying knife and die. (Thanks, again, to her surname.)

Because she was Uchiha Hashira. And, assumedly, this was the Land of Fire. She was an Uchiha in the Land of Fire while there were still clan wars going on.

This was bad.

Wars meant deaths.

Therefore, the next most pressing matter to her was whether or not she was born, uh, a hundred years before a Hidden Leaf Village would ever be imagined, or if she was born a few years right before its founding. _When_ in time was she? "When" would dictate all her next moves.

Until then, the Uchiwa fans on the walls made her sick. Her stomach was in a constant knot of fear and reverence for this new life because it suddenly seemed _that_ much more expendable.

(It probably was.)

She was born into a criminal family in a war-torn world that didn't seem to mind or care that there'd been fire and brimstone raining all on them just months ago. Because they were used to it. Only she cared. Because she wasn't ready to die again.

One unfair death was enough.

She'd never be ready to die.

* * *

"Shi, you're not hungry?" whispered Yanemaru conspiratorially.

Looking up, Mother's back was turned. She and father were distracted by another argument. It was something about food and health, and nothing about wars or Senju, so Hashira didn't bother listening in.

Her little brother was waiting patiently for an answer, grains of rice stuck to his face. She smiled wearily, pushing her untouched bowl over to him. "No."

For a kid, Yanemaru sure was a blessing. As fast as he could, he grabbed his chopsticks in a fist and scraped as much out of her bowl and into his empty one as he could (spilling rice just about everywhere. Hashira quickly scooped them up to put back into the bowl).

"…nd Madara-sama a few days ago, you're worried over nothing."

"Kuro-kun, you know you're such a hassle. Hashira-chan, Yacchan, I'll be right ba—…" When Mother turned to face them again, she trailed off, her eyes glimmering with instant joy when they landed on the half-empty dishes. "Oh! You two are almost done!"

Yanemaru didn't flinch or reply, too busy scarfing down their brunch at the speed of light.

Mother practically trembled in excitement as she waited for Hashira to eat in front of her too.

Hashira grinned sheepishly at her mother, hiding her clean chopsticks in her lap. Behind Mother's head was a banner of the clan crest that draped next to the window. Hashira's stomach churned at the sight; she really wasn't about to eat shit. "Ah, b…be right back?"

"Oh, right. I'll be right back." Mother wiped her clean hands on her unused apron and went to turn off the stove. (The blue flame under the burner only grew.) "Kuro-kun, you sure it's alright if she stays there? Taji-taichou's whole household is kinda mean."

"Don't use nicknames on a superior, Biru," Father chastised, reaching over to shut the stove off for real. "And I'm positive that he wouldn't mind; he owes me, after all. Don't worry yourself." He fixed his high collar to make sure it stood at its absolute height where only his eyes showed from above it, before scanning his family in a way he probably thought looked cool. It secretly did look kind of cool. "Besides, he has four sons who are around her age."

Mother, well aware that high collars equaled missions (whereas yukatas were home clothes), grabbed at his sleeve before he could hop out the open window and disappear for weeks. "Wouldn't they all be just as hard-headed as he is? We shouldn't expose my cute little baby to that kind of stress just yet."

"Please refrain from insulting your superiors."

"Whatever." Mother bit her lip, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Kuro-kun, really, if it's for the twins then I could weasel out a few more years to stay home with th—"

"Preposterous. They're nearly four, Biru. Your leave is almost up. Take care of your health in preparation for that. Go now."

Hashira glanced away from their conversation. _Father and his stupid big words_. Every time he opened his mouth she lost track of what they were talking about.

When Yanemaru finished his bowl, she swiftly switched it with hers and he cheerily resumed eating.

"But they need me!" Mother shouted in her Father's face. To his credit, he didn't even even blink. "Taji-taichou's firstborn is _eight_ and he already has wrinkles! Do you want that to be Hashira-chan? Huh? How would she _ever_ find a husband? Look at her, she's in dange— _huh_?" Mother paused in her forcefully turning Father's head to face the children when she noticed Hashira staring at them curiously, an empty bowl in front of her. "Hashira-chan, when did you finish your rice?"

"Uh… Go now!" Hashira echoed Father's earlier words, smiling nervously. She waved goodbye.

Yanemaru looked up in time to shout "go now, Mommy!" with a full mouth, imitating Hashira and waving with his chopsticks still in his hand, scattering grains of rice on the floor.

Father snorted and Mother huffed, saying, "Alright, alright, I'm off." — But then they departed the same way when Mother refused to let go of his sleeve and let him show off his admittedly pretty cool _ninja-leap out the window_ _skills_ to his kids in peace.

Hashira's nervous smiled faded as they left.

 _Finally! They talk too much._

But if she closed her eyes and focused, she could still locate her parents bantering as they walked out of the dining room and down the hallway, where they paused before the front door for a few seconds, before separating—Mother off to another room in the house, and Father right outside to what Hashira assumed was another mission. She couldn't feel him passed that.

Hashira nodded to herself, satisfied.

Even if she couldn't feel him when he passed the threshold, it was fine. Outside there was too much bustling to really pinpoint anyone in the courtyards anyway.

This was her new exercise.

If she could control that annoying sensory quirk of hers during the day, then maybe she could _suppress_ the ability to feel life during the night. If she did that, then she could better sleep at night, stay up more during the day, and thereby have more time figure out when the hell in the timeline she was.

She practiced this whenever she had time. Which was almost always. There was nothing else to do, really.

At this compound, her mother didn't take the kids out much. It made Hashira regret all the daily outings that she took for granted at the old one, where she maybe, possibly, _might've_ seen a fireball or at least a few kunais if she'd looked hard enough instead of napping on Mother's shoulder. Yanemaru probably saw _everything_.

No wonder he wasn't scared during the attack. Jeez.

 _Wait, what if Yanemaru's like me? Could he be a reincarnation too?_

Was that a possibility?

Hashira licked her lips pensively, before turning to her brother. He was scraping up the last few grains of rice in the bowl with his finger. Could someone like that be reborn? He really seemed like a regular inane toddler but hey, maybe he was an actor in his last life.

"Yacchan," she called.

He looked up, popping a finger in his mouth. "Shi!" he chirped. (He bit his finger as he spoke, wincing momentarily.)

 _Okay, that was kind of cute_ , she admitted.

He was either a _cute_ toddler or a _really_ good actor.

She pursed her lips and crawled over to his side of the table, his curious eyes trailing her the entire time. When Hashira reached him, he immediately reached out for a strand of her hair and tugged. It hurt a bit when he pulled so hard, but she was able to ignore it, already used to it.

"Hey, do you know, um…" How was she supposed to ask this? How did you say _reincarnation_ in Japanese? _Reborn_? "…Naruto? When you're alive two times?" she finished cautiously, albeit a bit awkwardly.

Yanemaru smiled at her, leaned over, and headbutted her.

"Ow!" She roughly shoved him off, clutching her forehead. "What the hell?"

"Hahaha!" He laughed at her from the floor, clutching his stomach with mirth like this was the funniest joke in the world. Jeez, what a brat. A four year old, through and through. "S…Shi, you— _haha!"_

That was a no, then. Got it. She was the luminescent baby of this family. Not even her twin had this quirk.

But, in that case, _why_ was she the only one reborn? What would this mean for her?

Yanemaru's jolly presence, sprawled on the floor beside her, rose like the tides and gradually amplified itself in her mind. Mother's aura—or her _ambiance_ , or her _chakra signature_ —echoed through the walls at Hashira in waves.

The room suddenly was flooded with energy. Or was it her mind?

 _I can't feel my feet…_

Hashira didn't feel her back hit the ground either. One second she was cogitating to herself, and in the next, Yanemaru's chakra signature was hovering over her; he was watching her curiously, recovering from his snickers; he was _way_ too close, she was about to explode. _Get away, get away, getaway, getawaygetaway—_

"What're you doing?" he laughed. Yanemaru poked her cheek with his sticky rice finger.

Something inside of her grew dense like a ballon when struck by a needle. Except, but the ballon didn't pop. It deflated. Then the chakra that she felt radiating off of her brother steadily dwindled into nothing.

"Yacchan? Are you there?"

"What?"

She was looking right at his questioning black eyes, staring back down at her, but she couldn't feel him. She couldn't feel Mother. She couldn't feel the people bustling outside.

"I see you. And I hear you," she said slowly, cautiously. "But are you there?"

Yanemaru blinked. "…Yes?"

Then why was it like he wasn't?

Furrowing her brows, Hashira tried to focus on him. But the more she tried, the more it felt like she was sinking into herself; like she was falling from her body, deeper into her mind; like she wasn't Hashira, she wasn't anyone. She was a nothing floating through space and time. She had no siblings. She had no mother. She couldn't feel.

 _She couldn't feel._

Without her control, her face scrunched up. Tears welled up in her eyes without her permission, racing hotly down her face and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Hashira broke out into sobs.

Yanemaru's eyes lit up with concern. "Shi? W-What's wrong? I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I was just playing with you! I'm sorry!"

"I-I don't," she stammered in between gasps and hiccups, wiping at her cheeks. "I d—don't…" _I don't know!_

Confused, Hashira tried to regain her composure. Naturally—or unnaturally, rather—her thoughts were perfectly composed as she wailed. But that was it, that was the whole point: She just couldn't stop crying!

She reasoned internally, grasping for her bearings. _One — I'm not hurt; two — I'm not sad; three — I'm not scared. Why the hell can't I stop crying?_

Yanemaru messily tried to help wipe her tears with his sleeves, but she couldn't feel him. He was shouting at her, asking if she was okay, and although she heard him, although he was right in front of her, she couldn't _feel_ him.

Another minute passed. He caught on to the apparent new trend of dramatics and started panicking too. His tears were most likely out of worry, though, so at least _he_ had a reason. His little hands clutched tightly at her head and body as he cried, hugging her tightly, and although she desperately wanted to roll away but her body was shaking.

Hashira distressingly tried to locate her mother, but couldn't. Her eyes worked perfectly fine, but she felt blind as a bat. She grabbed Yanemaru's arms for release.

"S…Stop it!" she cried. "Stop!"

Only, it wasn't painful at all. She barely even cared that he was touching her. Hashira was simply preoccupied with trying to calm down, and thus annoyed with him for distracting her, so her intentions were to ground out a quick and sharp "stop that" since that always seemed to do the trick.

But this time, he didn't stop. He only got louder. And she was acting like a complete child along with him.

By the time Mother rushed into the room, Hashira felt herself fade out.

The sensation of her mother's panicked chakra swelled and bloomed, drowning her with instant relief.

* * *

Hashira opened her eyes to the sight of Yanemaru's face across from her, inches away. They were in her futon—and why on earth was he in her futon when he had his own—but she couldn't muster any real annoyance at the moment.

She blinked drowsily, shifting away from him slowly. _How did I end up in bed?_

Turning onto her back, a breath of hot air hit her cheek from the other side. She grimaced, glancing in that direction. Mother was bent over the futon, asleep in a sitting position. A graceful blanket of silver moonlight rested on her from outside the window, but her frowning face was the picture of fraught. One hand was gently rested on Hashira's. The other supported her chin, elbow rested on her knee.

 _Mother? I didn't feel her there…_

But now that she knew to look for it— _ah, there it was_. Mother's chakra signature was warm and smooth, like honey and summer. It felt like a beacon somehow.

Hashira watched her steadily. Memories of earlier flooded the child's mind, along with the burning sensation guilt. _I gave Yanemaru food, wasn't able to feel his chakra for a second, and then I started crying. Then I… I passed out? What happened, really? What was the point of that? Mother must've been worried._

Mother's breathing was quiet. She barely moved a muscle as slept.

"Did I have a dream?" Hashira mumbled. She felt like she did, but she couldn't remember even one detail.

Honestly, she'd thought she was over autopilot wailing by now. _Guess not…_

The girl sighed, sitting up. Somehow, not being able to feel her family from across the house, or when they were only inches away, seemed more scary than the prospect of feeling of nighttime predators hunting for food.

Hashira pursed her lips.

Somewhere outside their front door, a cat was stalking a bird. She zeroed in on it, used to the feeling. Closing her eyes, Hashira could envision it: Small, plump, short feathers like down. Could it be a quail?

The cat—fluffy and short-tailed—pounced. Its movements were supple with grace. Its aura connected with the bird's in a second, and then the bird's faded. Dead.

The feline dragged it away.

She shivered, laying back down. When Yanemaru unconsciously wrapped his arms and legs around her, she let him, pressing her face on their mother's hand that was rested on hers. If she drew in on herself, she'd risk upsetting them again.

* * *

Hashira got the hunch that news of this made its way to Father's ears.

Mother hadn't been there and also she hadn't questioned her, so Hashira wasn't sure what wayward rendition she'd given Father, but he had _something_ and it made him extra cautious when he returned. It wasn't long till he returned.

The days flew by like arrows.

There wasn't a single calendar to be found in this entire fucking house. It was frustrating. All Hashira had as a marker was the sun and the seasons, but even _they_ were different here. _Everything_ was different here.

Autumn was warm and sunny at this new compound.

Her own birthday snuck up on her like a thief in the night.

In all her time at the old compound, Autumn was rainy, and Father would burst in at dusk after having nearly missed the kids' birthday, soaked to the bone and shivering, carrying delicacies that he'd _swear_ were the reason he'd been held up all day.

Then they'd eat and laugh, her not knowing that she lives with a clan of murderers, and them not knowing that they live with a reincarnated teen in a toddler's body.

This birthday, things were different.

For starters, Hashira woke to the scent of rice and curry, which could only mean that Father had returned from a mission for his kids' birthday early for once.

He made sure to shower Mother with souvenirs, Yanemaru with affection, and Hashira a very long but strangely fond look and an obligatory "hm" of acknowledgement, before planting her plate of breakfast in front of her first when she finally politely waved back.

Hashira wasn't sure what to think of that.

 _Secondly_ , she now knew that the setting of this world was basically the prehistoric inside of Naruto Shippūden's asshole, where shit went down. (No pun intended. (Yes, it was.))

Kids died in wars and no one cared. (Which was bad.) There was also the fact that it was possible to reattach limbs, to talk to animals, and to bring back the dead, but again, no one really cared. (Which was also bad, but in a different way.)

So while the rice and curry tasted good, she couldn't really eat with a clear mind when that apprehension rested at the back of her mind.

 _Lastly_ , her birthday marked the turn of events that led to her meeting Uchiha Izuna.

But that's upcoming.

Her— _their_ —birthday pulled up out of nowhere. Where Yanemaru gotten a wooden kunai and a set of blunt shurikens, Hashira had received a book on birds from her father. From her mother, she was given the clan crest hanging from a looped chain. (The necklace was later hidden under her pillow to never be seen again, so it didn't really count.)

Suddenly, Father had time to be home almost daily, taking his Yanemaru-kun out on whatever adventures took literally the entire day to complete.

Yanemaru abruptly stopped having time to mess with her clothes or to play with her hair or to clear her plates for her. When he got home, he was starving and tired enough that he did nothing but eat and sleep. When he woke up, it was to hastily be bathed, then to eat breakfast, and then to begone till dusk, where they did whatever it was that they did until it was time to return again. Famished and exhausted. This was their cycle.

Hashira wasn't sure what to think of that, either.

It was good for her, technically; she ate more food and was also able to test the limits of her chakra without him around to worry. However, a terrible sense of foreboding took her over whenever night came with Father and his weapon pouch in hand, and Yanemaru with his bruises.

Mother didn't seem to worry, so Hashira tried not to either. Unless she knew where she was in _Naruto_ , there'd be no use in stunting Yanemaru's progress as a shinobi—if that's what this was. And it obviously had to be.

But she was missing out on something, she was sure of it.

 _Where's my_ _shuriken set? My training outings? Where's_ my _progress? What the fuck am I supposed to do with a book and a necklace?_

It sent a clear sign that she was adamant to reject. She had her own plans, after all. But until she figured out whether or not in today there was an Uchiha Madara (and, frankly, that was the first goal) how would she go about trying to become strong?

Hashira had no clue.

She couldn't really ask her mother "hey, could you teach me to vomit fire? And also walk up walls?" — not to say that even she knew enough Japanese to, or that she was supposed to know the concept of ninjutsu yet, or that she was even that good at walking on the ground.

Aside from that, her parents had run off pretty quickly during that attack a while ago, so she couldn't be sure they were even _good_ ninjas. What if they were sucky genin-levels?

 _Then they wouldn't be alive, fool._

Right. The average lifespan of this generation was dangerously low.

 _Well, then._ On that note, there was no time to lose.

Hashira knew there had to be kunais _somewhere_ around here, but all her looking and searching (checking cabinets, shuffling through drawers, and ransacking shelves) always came up fruitless; if there were scrolls on secret techniques lying around, she had yet to find them; if there were senbon or katanas, then they were hidden out of sight. In other words, the house was completely baby proofed.

Hashira sat back, stumped. She didn't expect much differently, but where the hell was she supposed to go from here?

"Hashira-chan, what're you looking for?" someone asked from behind her.

Fuck. Leave it to Mother to notice her scouring. _It's your fault for being so messy, stupid._ True. But Hashira still cursed internally.

Outwardly, she blurted, "Uh, nothing!" But her eyes hit the rumpled tatami mats in guilt anyway.

"And that's why these scrolls are all on the floor?" asked Mother skeptically.

It was ridiculous. The only books and scrolls to be found on the shelves were baby reads—on colors, numbers, different types of ninja weapons, animals, an array of creepy Uchiha™ nursery rhymes that somehow almost all revolved around the moon or fire, did she mention _colors_ (who knew colors were so important to these guys?)—and other trivial subjects that she'd already gone over millions of times by now. The only reason they were still up there might've been because Yanemaru could never be bothered.

But then again, they were just barely four years old. Most likely, she was the weird one.

"I want a new scroll, Biru," said Hashira. One on something useful, like chakra or jutsu. "I finished these already."

" _Biru_?"

Hashira froze. Shit. "Mother," she hastily corrected.

"One — no, new scrolls for bad girls. You're cleaning this up." Mother pursed her lips. "Two — for the last time, call me _Mommy_."

Her brother's voice obeyed the order that wasn't meant for him. "Mommy!"

Looking up from the tatami mat, Hashira found him slouched comfortably on Mother's hip. _If he's here then Father must be home._ So it must've been nightfall. Had she really been searching that long? And Mother had let her? Hashira blinked, noticing the kimono that Mother was wearing. _Those aren't casual clothes. She went out today._

"Yacchan, say hi to your sister!"

"Hi, Shi!" sang Yanemaru cheekily. Hashira deadpanned when he waved coyly, both knowing that it was ages since Mother had last lifted her.

"Hey." She waved back flippantly. _Showoff._

Mother was wearing a bright grin. "You two are my _cute_ _little_ … ugh!" she squealed, squeezing her son briefly. "So it's gonna hurt me to say this! But, as always, your dad is being a bit pigheaded. Hashira-chan, I'm going on a mission soon. When I do, I'm leaving you in the care of one of your dad's comrades, Taji-taichou. He's a general in the clan so be good, and—and don't get wrinkles!"

Hashira's mind blanked. Her arm froze in its place on the shelf, book in hand. _What? Who?_

"You're overreacting, Biru. She'll be safe there."

Father sauntered into the room, scratching his goatee. There was a leaf in it but apparently no one told him. Hashira didn't tell him either.

When he glanced back, chuckling softly, she immediately looked away. Why did the floors seem a lot more interesting? The walls did too. So did her hands. The books didn't, though, so Hashira got to shelving them. They needed to be up before dinnertime, otherwise she'd miss it. Hashira made sure to shelve them extra slow.

Father's hand drifted down to audibly scratch at his side. His chuckles didn't cease. His voice was gentle and warm.

Disarming, right?

But she wouldn't be fooled.

She didn't know much about Father, but she knew that he knew she knew more than she let on. Something about him made it impossible to hide it.

Father had a nervous tick. He'd scratch at the side of his waist and narrow his eyes a bit, before looking away and laughing it off. He did it whenever Mother nagged at him, he did it whenever Yanemaru walked in looking too roughed up after a day of training (cue more nagging, by the way) and also he did it whenever Hashira looked at him. Whenever she simply stared for a bit, pondering over whatever she had to think about in that particular point in time, he would scratch till it looked like it hurt and then he'd look away, laughing it off.

Hashira didn't know what his problem was.

But he had one, and it was there in the way he'd narrow his eyes and reach for his waist and scratch, scratch, _scratch_. Then Mother would glare at him. But he'd laugh it off and smile wearily.

But with the way that he glanced down at her, Hashira felt like the itch was still there.

* * *

 _I'm leaving you in the care of one of your dad's comrades: Taji-taichou!_

"Fuck his comrades. I wanna stay home." — is what she _wanted_ to say, in good nature, of course. But she didn't know how to say "fuck" in Japanese yet and, at this rate, she probably never would. It'd already been four years.

Mother liked to tell her share of jokes (that were actually just unfunny lies) but this sure was uncomfortably strange. Halfway because it apparently wasn't a joke (just unfunny honestly), and a fourth was because Hashira's stupid pink kimono was way too damn tight. The last fourth was because she even _had_ to be babysat.

Yes, babysat.

She could hardly believe it either.

They reached Taji-taichou's home in record time, where Mother knocked so hard on the shoji door that it shook. She was mumbling a mile a minute. " _Gonna be late, gonna be late, gonna be l—"_

"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU—!" The door slid open with a loudly revealing a glaring woman with wrinkles around her eyes. A deadpan look swept over her face when she saw Mother grinning there. "It's you."

Hashira scuffled back to the point where only her eyes were left peaking from behind Mother's red kimono. She grabbed on to the back of the fabric like it was shield. _Is that a kunai in that lady's hand?_

Mother either didn't notice or didn't care. "Shiryo-san, what a surprise! Is Taji-taichou here?"

 _Shiryo-san_ didn't look amused. "A surprise, you say…" she dryly repeated, flicking the kunai up her sleeve. The white textile didn't start bleeding red. Heck, she didn't even _flinch_! It was so cool. And intimidating. Hashira shuffled a bit further behind Mother. Shiryo-san didn't even glance at her. "Tajima-sama is out training the firstborns, and I'm busy tending to the others, so—"

"Oh my, that's tragic!" Mother clapped a hand against her cheek in dismay.

Hashira squinted skeptically. That kind of contradicted the pep-talk she was given earlier about avoiding that asshole Taji-taichou as much as possible so she wouldn't end up aging faster than a mayfly. But whatever.

 _Wait, wait wait. Shiryo-san didn't say Taji-taichou, she said Tajim—_

Hashira almost tripped when she was nudged out from behind her mother. " _Unfortunately_ ," Mother continued somberly, in a way that entirely was genuine and not farce at all, "I'll have to leave Hashira-chan in _your_ care then, Shiryo-san. I'm about to be late for my first mission after maternity leave. So do it for an old friend, will you?"

Hashira suddenly was ten times less okay with staying here. _Friend? She staring knives into your skull._ "Mother, I—"

"Pardon? _Friend_?"

Mother waved it off, practically jogging in place to emphasize just how hurried she was. (But even _this_ was an unfunny lie because in the next second, she didn't even jog or run off, she _leapt_ over a wall—which was dramatic and uncalled for, scaring the bejeezus out of her already anxious daughter—calling out, "Bye, Hashira-chan! Don't get wrinkles!")

Hashira barely responded in time. "A—Ah! Bye, Mother!" _Even though I'm pretty sure you just abandoned me…_

Shiryo-san didn't say a word, watching her more or less old friend go.

The silence that followed was loaded.

Hashira glanced around. Could it be too late to run? Would she be stopped by Shiryo-san? Would she get lost?

She looked up at Shiryo-san, who definitely had a knife or two (or ten) hidden up her long sleeve, dressed in a shimmering white yukata, her deep green braid resting on her shoulder, also shiny. All of her was so glossy, like the leaves of poison ivy. Hashira wringed her hands. Shiryo-san stared off into space for a few more seconds like there was an invisible camera and this was _The Office_ , before her eyes flickered down to meet Hashira's for the first time. Her gaze was a solid grey, sharp like iron.

"How irresponsible." She sighed harshly. "Four whole years of leave? Those fools shouldn't have had kids so early…"

"Huh?" asked Hashira.

Shiryo-san folded her arms into her sleeves, rolling her eyes. "Nevermind that. _Hashira-chan_ , was it?"

It only sounded right when Mother said it. "Y…Yeah," she said, wincing when her voice cracked. _You're already technically nineteen_ , she immediately chided herself. _You shouldn't be this anxious just from being around strangers._

Another side of her laughed. It was the disbelieving kind of laugh that said: _Uh, this isn't just any stranger! This stranger just answered the door with a_ knife _ready to shank your mother! So be anxious till you die, it won't be long anyway._ — Which was kind of morbid, but the self-deprecating humor of it all made her giggle apprehensively anyway.

Shiryo-san arched a brow, observing her silently.

 _Scary._

On impulse, Hashira reached out to make sure she wasn't really alone, but she couldn't feel those three familiar chakra signatures anywhere: Mother, Father, and Yanemaru weren't around. It was just her and Shiryo-san, who still had a kunai knife hidden in her sleeve. Who still had that iron gaze trained on her.

"I suppose you should come inside," she said. "You can meet my son."

* * *

 _Son is singular. I'm only meeting one._

Shiryo-san had multiple sons but two were apparently out training, one was still a diaper baby who took naps, and the last one was in his room waiting for his mommy to return, which she was currently doing.

Hashira got to sit at a kotetsu and wait while Shiryo-san went to retrieve him. Nice.

She took the time to observe this place.

The first thing that struck her was how the inside of the house had the distinctive smell of mint. Then she noticed how everything was polished and shiny, including Shiryo-san. Hashira felt a bit out of place here, despite her sakura-themed kimono and ponytail hime-cut doing their absolute best to make her fit in _. Sorry guys, it's not working_ , she thought, notwithstanding how it was her fault for putting up a fight when Mother took to long to cream her hair.

The sliding door that Shiryo-san had left open in her search for her son revealed (shiny) hallways that led to even more sliding doors but, from her seat, Hashira couldn't see passed anything that. On her other side, the sliding door on the opposite wall was closed.

She was getting kind of bored. Did Shiryo-san just, like… leave her here? Was that allowed? Wasn't she mothers sort-of-not-really Old Friend? Taji-taichou Father's comrad—

Wait, pause.

Hashira backpedaled mentally. She distinctly recalled Shiryo-san calling him _Tajima-sama_. As in, _Uchiha Tajima._

The name Uchiha Tajima rang a bell in her mind. It also raised red flags. She _knew_ that name.

 _Isn't that… isn't that Madara's father?_

"Madara's…" Hashira wryly repeated, a deadpan look sweeping across her face. "His…" His dad? His house? Ah, jeez, she felt another headache coming on, because—Madara _Who_? Uchiha? Madara Uchiha? _Uchiha Madara_? _Warring States Period_ Madara? That one?

This was his house? What the hell?

She impulsively glanced around to see if he'd jump out from behind the walls with a gunbai at the ready.

"Sama!" a voice added abruptly, making her flinch. Then she realized that it was high-pitched and kind of cute.

Hashira looked to the open sliding door and found a small boy standing there, holding Shiryo-san's hand. In his other arm was a huge stuffed kunai pressed up against his chest and a smaller wooden one tightly grasped in his hand.

The wooden kunai was no surprise—Yanemaru had one too, after all—but _he_ had a plushie. A _plushie_. This clan had _plushies_? And no one thought to give one to _her_? Wow. She'd have to ask Mother about that later.

"Hey! Don't ignore me! That's _mean_!" The boy snatched his hand from his mom and came up to her. When he was arm's length away from Hashira, she just barely resisted the overwhelming urge to grab at the plushie and squeeze it, just for kicks. "The name's Madara- _sama_!"

Why was he stressing the suffix? She knew damn well that 'sama' wasn't actually a part of anybody's name. "Nice to meet you. My name's Hashira." She nodded politely and dutifully resisted the impulse to steal his stuffed weapon.

"Wha— no!" He waved his hands frantically, dropping the toys. Hashira's hand drifted toward the plushie without her consent. "It's not me!"

 _Huh?_ Her hand stopped. "Uh… it's not…? Then why do you care what I call him?"

Not-Madara's face flushed pink, his eyes watering. "Because he's my brother!"

Ah, Overprotective Sibling Tendencies no Jutsu, the second bloodline limit of the Uchiha Clan.

Hashira blinked awkwardly, glancing up at his mom.

Said mom was dryly shaking her head from her spot at the door frame. "It's no use with them," she mumbled, sliding the door closed. Before she disappeared behind it, she paused to tell him: "Hashira-chan was clearly already told your names, but introduce yourself properly anyhow. This is unbecoming of a son of the Eastern Compound."

Hashira was still caught up on the earlier statement. _It's no use with them?_ What the heck did that mean?

Not-Madara pouted, wiping his tears, but obeyed his mom's order. "My name is Uchiha Izuna. Call me Izuna-sama."

Uchiha Izuna. Now _that_ name rang a bell. Or a few hundred bells. But while the memories flooded in, she felt her faint headache fade to nothing.

She remembered him too. _Better_ than she did Tajima, even. Uchiha Izuna was definitely canon; he was the knockoff Sasuke who'd sooner or later get killed by… by _someone_ _who's also canon_. Whatever. The point is that his death would be important, unlike the rest of his brothers, who'd die nameless. Yeah, she definitely remembered him.

 _Knock._

"Ow!"

Izuna retracted a balled hand from the top of her head. "You in there, Hashika?" he asked.

"Tch." She glanced at him, then did a double take when _this_ time she didn't see a manga character who'd die for plot meta in the future—she saw a kid. Pink cheeks, full lips, wide eyes, and what seemed to be that same annoying intolerance for being disregarded that Yanemaru used to have. His babyish face scrunched up and made her second guess her nonchalance to the thought of him dying— _is that even human? Don't be so amoral!_ —but…

But if it was canon, what could she do about it? It's not like he was real. He was a fictional character. Right? Right!

 _If he doesn't die and the Hidden Leaf Village isn't founded, then what? If I stick my nose places it doesn't belong and die in the time I could've been safely hidden in the leaves, then what?_ And that wasn't an option. It wasn't her business, her only mission was to survive.

"I'm here, Izuna-chan," she replied, catching his fist when it came flying at her forehead. _Hashika? Really?_ And not even Hashika- _san_ , from the kid who wanted her to call him sama?

"Hey! It's _—_ "

Hashira interrupted, leaning her elbows on the low table. "Why are you here when your brothers are not?" (*read: Where's Madara?)

Izuna's face dropped into a pout. "Father's a general. He's on a mission at the capital compound. A lot of generals are going there since one the compounds got attacked, and Father's going too. Since he's a general." He plopped down beside her, watching her with those wide black eyes. Why were they so wide? "Toshuie-nii and Madara-nii got to go with him for training, but Mommy says I'm too small to."

"Hm?" Too small to? He couldn't be any younger than she and Yanemaeru were, but he wasn't allowed to train? "What's the capital compound?"

"You don't know?" Izuna reeled, surprised. "Are you even an Uchiha? It's where the clan head lives!" He nodded to himself. "But where it actually _is_ is a secret. Only the generals know that. Which my father is — a general. He's a general."

Hashira squinted. Was he implying that it was common knowledge for an Uchiha? She didn't even know that there _were_ other compounds before her old one burnt to a crisp.

"Izuna-san—"

" _Sama_!"

"Izuna-chan, how old are you?"

He dramatically ruffled up his hair. It was already looking kind of ruffled so nothing really changed, except for the fact that she now saw that he was dramatic.

"You're one?" she guessed.

"No!" Kids didn't have a very good feel for sarcasm. "I'm almost five! I'm turning five next month! And when I am, I'm gonna join group training with everyone else," he informed proudly. "Did you know that this compound is the only one that has Group Training? It's to… to _pronote_ teamwork and _conrady_ in the clan! Which is important! My father thought it up, 'cause he's the smartest genera…"

 _What the heck is he even saying?_ Hashira tuned him out, picking up his plushie from the floor. _Jeez._

It was strange, really. Everyone at this compound was just so stiff, yet he was bubbly to the point that it was obnoxious. Yanemaru never _tried_ to play with her anymore, yet Izuna was here to mess around instead of out training too, even at age four.

 _So are you, fool._

Touché.

The day passed more quickly then Hashira thought it would.

She and Yanemaru had this unspoken understanding where he could mess with her hair, muss up her clothes, play with her fingers, crack her toes, and—basically do whatever he wanted, whatever he thought was fun, so long as he didn't expect her to reciprocate such annoying gestures or distract her from her meditating.

She and Izuna didn't have that understanding. Or any, really. If you didn't answer him, he got louder. If you slapped him away, then—… Well, his kunai-wielding mother that you feared was still in the house somewhere, so you didn't really slap him away. So you didn't want him loud in the first place. So you responded. Which wasn't too bad after you've had, what? Six, seven hours of it? With extremely short but frequent snack breaks which were actually just him trotting to the fridge and retrieving fruits.

It was nice.

She didn't think she'd get comfortable in that house with the woman who hid knives in her sleeves, but dusk found her lazily sprawled across both her and Izuna's zabuton while he, sitting cross legged on the table, rambled enthusiastically from above her.

Hashira liked to ask questions and make wisecrack comments; Izuna liked to yabber and brag, and also overreact to anything he perceived as an insult. It was the perfect arrangement.

"Wait, wait, so you _are_ training?" she asked.

Izuna smirked, excitedly clapping his hands into a seal. "I finished stretching before you got here! It wasn't hard b—"

"Just stretching?" In what world was stretching training? For four/almost-five year olds, stretching should be a cake-walk. Why would stretching be _training_? Hashira squinted doubtfully.

"You're kind of slow, Hachira-kun," Izuna commented.

"Pardon?" _Hachira? Kun?_

Izuna pressed his hand against his forehead demonstratively. Hashira wasn't sure what he was trying to demonstrate. "I'm training with my chakra too, obviously!" It was not obvious at all. "I'm not supposed to do strength training since my body can't build muscle yet. Father said so."

Oh, word? Then why did Yanemaru come home bruised every day?

Hashira blinked up at him. "How do you do chakra training then?"

"Your father hasn't showed you how yet? You're gonna be a poor ninja at this rate."

"I'll never be poor." She scowled.

Izuna rolled his eyes. It made him look so much like Shiryo-san that Hashira's lips automatically curved into a nervous smile. He reached into his obi and pulled out a few crumpled leaves. Why the heck did he walk around with leaves in his obi? "The leaf exercise," he said.

Hashira didn't reply, narrowing her eyes. Was that in the show? She didn't remember that…

"Stick it to your forehead using chakra," he requested. Really, it sounded like an order but if she interpreted it as on order then she'd probably refuse to, so Hashira decided to take it as a humble request. She reached up and swiped the crumpled leaf from his fingers.

"How?" she asked, bringing it near her face.

He rolled his eyes again. "Hachiro-kun, sit up first. You can't beat gravity or our enemies laying down."

How did this kid know what gravity was? Wasn't he only four? Why were _Naruto_ kids such overdeveloped mutants?

"Enemies?" Hashira frowned. "You mean the Senju?" He'd already been told that they were training to fight and kill others? Was this common knowledge too, that her just parents hadn't told her? (Only, she already knew too. So maybe it was only Yanemaru being left out.)

Izuna blinked in confusion. "Huh?"

"I see you've taught her _some_ things, Kuromasaru-san."

 _Father?_

Hashira sat up hastily while Izuna frantically dove off the table and back onto his cushion, accidentally kicking her hand with the leaf in it. She ignored it, eyes focused on the shoji door as it slid open. A few more hundred bells sprang to life in her mind. _How long have they been listening in?_

Shiryo-san was there standing tall with a baby in her arms. At her side was Kuromasaru-san, _Kuro-kun_ , Hashira's father.

Time froze for just a second, before she stood and quickly approached him, the sound of Izuna's footsteps trailing behind her slowly. Hashira brushed her hands off from grains of dirt. "F—Father, you're here!"

He hummed, handing her her geta sandals. He must've grabbed them from the genkan on his way in. Then, when Father turned to thank Shiryo-san for "watching" her, there was the brief but swift feeling of Izuna stuffing leaves into the back of Hashira's obi.

 _What the fuck?_ She turned to eye him. Her "what the fuck" face must have looked to him like "thank you" because he smirked and flashed a thumbs up, mouthing the words _don't mention it_. Hashira mouthed _what the hell_ to try to get him on the same page that she was on while Shiryo-san waved Father off.

"Don't mention it," she told him.

Like son, like mother, like son.

* * *

The way home was tense.

Nothing really happened to make it tense, but it just was.

When Shiryo-san and Izuna disappeared behind the closing doors of their home, Hashira to face her father, only to be startled by the sight of a calculating frown.

"We're going now," he informed, picking his daughter up and carrying her in his arms. Hashira grabbed onto the high collar of his shirt, stunned. Mother _never_ picked her up anymore.

Questioned raced through her mind. __Why did Shiryo-san actually_ point out _that Hashira was ignorant? Why did it feel like she was right?_ Why did Izuna know so much that she didn't? Why did he treat it like facts on the whole country were a dime a dozen, whereas she still didn't know her own clan leader's name? _It wasn't Tajima, like she'd assumed. He wasn't clan head, he was a general. Izuna made sure that tidbit was impaled into her brain.

Father took slow steps as he walked. "Shichu." His low voice cut through the silence. "How do you know the name _Senju_? From where did you hear it?"

Hashira blinked. She was an Uchiha, how could she not?

 _From my last life, it was in Naruto Shipp_ _ū_ _den_ — part of her supplied as an answer. That must've been the devil on her shoulder. The angel on her other shoulder nudged her in the direction of something like _I remember you yelling that name when the other compound was attacked_ , which sounded good and well if you didn't consider how she wasn't supposed to know the words to say all that yet. She was only barely four. Finally she settled on: "I heard Izuna-san."

Well, she _did_ hear Izuna. She heard him ramble on about lots of things. Just not foreign enemies. But Father didn't need to know that.

Still, by the frown that pulled at his eyebrows, she felt that she'd given the wrong answer.

"I see."

He sped into his usual brisk pace, evidently done with conversation. Figures. First time she sees him in a while and the first thing he does is question her and then pretend she doesn't exist.

It took forever to reach home. No matter how close it was—ten meters, five meters, one meter, till they even stepped in the door—if Mother wasn't there, home felt so far away.

They skipped dinner.

Mother was the only one really big on family dinners, so with Hashira having already eaten at Tajima's place and Yanemaru currently falling asleep in his seat, Father decided that it wasn't really necessary.

For Hashira, things worked out better that way.

Now she had more time to adjust to her mother not being where she could feel her, and still get to falling asleep sometime before the night time predators woke.

 _She's just on a mission, jeez. Don't be such a baby._

Right.

* * *

That night, one predator was unaccounted for.

Hashira awoke to red. There were three comma-shaped buttons swirling unsuspectingly in his gaze.

 _Sharingan_.

She squeezed her eyes shut on impulse, feeling her chest clench. Her breath sped up and drops of sweat slowly formed on her brow. This was another dream _._ This had to be another dream. _So they were nightmares…_ And she'd forget this in the morning too, just like the rest of them.

Hashira groped at her side for her brother but felt nothing but sheets. So Yanemaru wasn't in it. She was alone.

"H…Help," she breathed. She was an Uchiha now, right? So what sense did it make for her to be seeing sharingans in her dreams?

Cool fingers dragged gently across her cheek. Her breath caught.

She heard her father's voice, gentle and warm. "I'm here, Hashira. I just need to you open your eyes."

But the sharingan she saw was his, wasn't it?

The fingers on her face went up to her hair, stroking the strands with care. She felt his lips plant on her forehead. They smelled of cinnamon and ash. "You're still dreaming. Wake up."

So, she did. Opening her eyes slowly, the girl was met with spinning black-on-red once again. And then it faded, to black. Everything faded to black.

"Forgive me."

 _Liar._


End file.
